


of your own free will

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Implied Kavinsky/Ronan, Kavinsky is a content warning, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 18:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hand strays from the gearshift to your knee, and your lip curls slowly, trying to determine how much of your immediate hate is concealing desire. You’d like to say <i>none</i> except the wild edge that draws you to Ronan has been honed to stiletto sharpness in Kavinsky, and you know why you chose to get into his car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of your own free will

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I’ve posted enough nsfw stuff under a different name that I’m brave enough to put this here... just no one make eye contact with me, I am a still shy, nervous pornographer. Please mind the dubious consent tag also
> 
> [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) insisted I write this, and then beta'd, she is as excellent as ever

You shouldn’t have brought up the rent, but Gansey shouldn’t have brought up school fees, and Ronan certainly shouldn’t have opened his crass, careless mouth. Things weren’t even _out of hand_ , they were heated but normal, Gansey trying and failing to comprehend why you can’t just let him give you more money than you could pay back, and you doing your best not to scream your frustration at him. It’s hard not to; sometimes; the genuine distress on his face makes it worse.

But then _Ronan_ had to speak up, told you that it wasn’t Gansey who filled the gap in your rent, it was him. You think he was just trying to get you to ease off Gansey, canine loyalty at its finest, but you saw Gansey’s surprise and felt the truth with a lurch of your stomach. You have had long practice weathering Gansey’s condescension. You’ve been learning to tolerate Blue’s. But you can’t take it from Ronan.  

You’re meant to be better than him. You’ve got better self-control, better grades, better personal hygiene. You’re careful with yourself in a way you’ve never seen him be, perfect restraint to his storm, and you always thought very quietly that it could be you choosing to love him, and not the other way around.

You cannot be pitied by Ronan Lynch.

You stormed away from Monmouth on foot, because you don’t know how to look fiercely angry on a bicycle, and you pick any path that won’t take you home. Even though you’re tired from your day, from work and the fight and from everything, you can’t go home and rest. You already know you’d think of Gansey and Ronan, back in Monmouth and murmuring about you, and lash out at the few things you need to last.

It’s when you reach the edge of town that reason threatens to kick in and remind you however far out you walk, you still need to walk home, but you’re still simmering in a way you’re sure Gansey would call ‘petty’ on anyone else but you. The thought makes you feel worse. The roar of an engine behind you makes you jump and turn, viciously afraid you’re going to see an orange paintjob and a well-intentioned insult.

Between the oncoming headlights, you recognise the hungry grille of Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi, and it’s not quite relief but it’s something. His boys are in their own cars behind him, splayed out over the road in hunting formation, and you step a little further onto the footpath, well out of their way.

Of course they’d notice you anyway. Of _course_ Kavinsky would bring his Evo up to the gutter to crawl along at your pace, his sunglasses reflecting your misery back at you, their lenses the blackest thing in the night. “Hey, Parrish,” he calls, and you’re surprised he even knows your name, but it must be a side effect of the way he watches Ronan. “Want a ride?”

There is a threat gleaming on his incisors, and a very jagged edge to his smirk. His shades might as well be black holes, drinking the universe selfishly in and giving nothing back out. You don’t want a ride with him, you don’t want to look at him or speak to him or play any part in whatever the fuck kind of foreplay he and Ronan have been drawing out over the last few months. Any interest Kavinsky has in you is filtered through Ronan’s potential reactions, and above everything else you don’t want be wondering what _Ronan_ thinks of you.

You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you were weak enough for him to pity you.

You stop walking. Beside you, the Mitsubishi stops too, knife graphic bending strangely under the direct glow of the streetlights. The rest of Kavinsky’s pack thunder’s past, a rush of clashing basslines that are gone before you could have tried to guess the songs, but they’re already slowing at the end of the road, pulling up and turning back to wait for their leader.

There’s a pretty good chance that you’re going to die, but Ronan Lynch thought he needed to pay your rent behind your back and that is not the kind of life worth clinging to. You get in the car.

The smell of whatever Kavinsky’s been smoking assaults your nose immediately, and his music is all the noise of Ronan’s with none of the heart. You just lean away and press your head to the window as though the chill of the glass can seep through your forehead to your brain and help you back down from whatever it is you’re trying to do. The Mitsubishi leaps forward smoothly under Kavinsky’s command, the most responsive of all the cars you’ve been in, and that’s counting Ronan’s BMW because it was responding to Ronan.

Kavinsky tears past the other cars, and they shoot after him again, four sets of headlights bursting through the rear window over the dash, artificial light all the more surreal for the depth of the night around you. For a moment, you grasp what you were after, the thrill of speed and of leading, of others behind you burning out and Kavinsky turning to grin at you, his toxic smile so much easier to swallow when you’re on the same side of the glass as him.

And then his hand strays from the gearshift to your knee, and your lip curls slowly, trying to determine how much of your immediate hate is concealing desire. You’d like to say _none_ except the wild edge that draws you to Ronan has been honed to stiletto sharpness in Kavinsky, and you know why you chose to get into his car.

You don’t move his hand away. For a time, you ride like that, lights of Henrietta and stray motorists passing in a hazy blur, the rest of the gang darting forward and back and trading places between each other but never overtaking you. And Kavinsky’s hand slowly feeling up your thigh, toying with the edge of your shorts like he hasn’t already made a decision. He doesn’t even turn to smirk anymore, he’s so sure of his assumption.

You can tell something changes when the car starts to slow. The others pull ahead, but Kavinsky doesn’t blink, doesn’t force his engine to issue a challenge, and this time the pack doesn’t wait for him to catch up, either. They slow and disperse, and suddenly you’ve gone from a spotlight backing to squinting at receding brake lights and a chill of discomfort goes through you, hard counterpoint to the warm hand still on your thigh.

You still haven’t worked out what you want, just that you don’t hate the idea to throw yourself out the car door and that you don’t think there’s much of a choice left for you, not when Kavinsky finally, finally turns to you, lupine smile harsher in the dark. “So,” he says, and you wish you were in the Camaro where the engine is too loud for anyone to speak in a _purr_ , “You’re not here because you wanted to go for a drive.”

“I guess not,” you say. You wish he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, so you could meet his eyes; he would be so much easier to deal with if you could just see the deep-bruise shadows you know he has, know that he’s as tired as you are and more than the shimmer of distant lights on his shades.

The hand on your knee crawls along your inseam, and while your knees tick together involuntarily, you don’t stop him. You suppose that’s an invitation. Kavinsky’s awful, jarring music is still playing, low enough for you to ignore it now, but it’s an unwelcome backing track as he starts palming you through your shorts. Even with your head back and your eyes closed, the music won’t let you forget where you are, who you’re with, how big a mistake you’re making. You still get hard under the rough strokes of his hand.

When you look up again he’s a lot closer than he used to be, throat bulging as he swallows down something that could have been a pill more easily than anticipation. You don’t think you’re enough to really excite Kavinsky, but Ronan is, and that’s the thrill in you for him. Maybe in his head, you’re property, and he’s savouring the chance to get his filthy hands all over one of Ronan’s things.

It’s probably fair. You’re just looking for a way to manifest all your self-hatred, and there has never been anyone better in Henrietta than Kavinsky.

You’re wary that he’s going to kiss you when he leans in, but he doesn’t, pressing his lips to your throat and biting, pulling strangled little cries from your throat, and he licks and sucks and makes dark blossoms under his teeth. Predatory, possessive, not unexpected, but you didn’t think it would hurt quite so much. You didn’t think you’d enjoy it, either, but it’s forcing a better reaction out of you than the hand on your half-hard cock. There is no way you will ever be able to hide the savage marks he’s leaving on you, and it sends a thrill deep in you, that you can choose to do this, to take this.

“Fuck, Parrish, you sound good,” Kavinsky mumbles around a mouthful of neck, and you hadn’t quite realised how vocal you were being, or how incapable you are of stopping. Ragged sighs follow every new press of Kavinsky’s teeth, and something in you is beginning to shift, an ache you buried long ago rising up and begging to finally be eased. You’d never even noticed how much you _needed_ this, but you notice it now, and when Kavinsky drags his tongue up from your collar to your jaw, your whole body trembles.

All at once he pulls away, and you stagger at the lack of contact, at the amount of space free around you, and wish there was something to fill it. “Backseat, Parrish,” he tells you, and you think you see blood on his lips before his tongue darts out to catch it. You press a hand to your neck, but you can’t tell blood from sweat from spit, just that you are a mess of sweetly tender bruises and when you find your pulse, it’s erratic.

You stumble out of the car on his command, and the night air smacks into you instantly. Half the mood from the car evaporates, chill stealing all the edge from your need as though the breeze is Gansey, begging you to reconsider. There is nothing actually keeping you. You could still walk home and hide your hickeys and not take whatever poorly-considered pot-shot at Ronan that you are currently trying to take.

Kavinsky sees your indecision and circles the hood, opening the rear door and grabbing the front of your shirt like he’s actually going to stuff you in. Instinctively, you grab for his hands, trying to shove him off, but he sneers and presses you back up against the side. “You got in _my_ car, Parrish,” he tells you. “And we are going to fucking see this through. Don’t you want to?”

He rolls the palm of his hand against your crotch, a rough motion that makes you gasp in a way that you don’t know if you want to. When he grabs you again, you don’t resist, let him guide you into the back of the Evo, mind a hazy mess of base desires versus higher reasoning versus self-preservation. For Kavinsky, this was a done deal from the start; you don’t think you’ll have made up your mind until it’s over.

You scoot as far along the seat as you can as Kavinsky climbs in after you, shutting the door and finally losing his shades. You thought his eyes would be more bearable than your own reflection, but they’re as dark and ravenous as the grille of his car. He crawls over you looking like he’s going to consume you, and your most confused parts give an excited stutter. “On your _back_ , Parrish, haven’t you done this before? Gansey needs to train you better.”

You rear up, ready to quit just over that, but Kavinsky slaps a hand over your mouth and nudges you with his other elbow, guiding you onto your back with him between your legs. Your retort dies on your tongue unspoken, and then you lose it completely in the feel of Kavinsky’s hips bearing down on yours.

You cram yourself further back, even though the angle’s straining your neck already and the coldness of the glass behind your head makes you feel visible, vulnerable. It doesn’t make a difference; Kavinsky fills every space you give him, like a vapour curling around your neck, your hips, licking at the shell of your ear and teasing at the hem of your shorts.

There’s nothing to do but shiver under him, let him slide your shorts off your hips with a movement that’s too-practiced and leaves you wondering who he’s practiced it with. There’s a single instant of separation when he pulls away to work his own jeans down, the last moment that you get to try and reconsider – and you still don’t know about _Kavinsky_ , just that you are half-stupid with how hard you are – and then there’s nothing between you, his cock grinding against yours, moans rolling up your throat and out your lips and there is not a drop of blood in your body outside of your burning cheeks and aching erection.

“Grab that,” he says, indicating something with a jerk of his head that you very nearly miss, “unless you don’t want any.”

‘That’ is a bottle of lube lying under your seat, because of course it is, and you fumble it up to Kavinsky, hands slippery with sweat and all your fine motor control calculating how to cant your hips against his to get the most friction. He just tips the bottle up over his dick, hand slicking you both up with an easy slide that makes your eyes roll back, and then the bottle’s gone, both his hands are digging into your waist, and you don’t think you have ever wanted anything quite so much. You’ve never hated yourself more. This is perfect.

“Ready, princess?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer. Your knees snap closed around his waist as he pushes into you, toes curling and fingers desperately scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders, probably falling into furrows left by the last person in your position.

It’s not quite what you thought it would be, on all the nights where you were up late enough to allow yourself to imagine. He’s hot in you, and mostly what you feel is pressure, his cock rubbing up against your insides in ways that make you shake desperately against him. You didn’t imagine how much the cramp in your neck would distract you, or how your knees would lock and hips would angle on their own to try and guide him to the right place. You didn’t imagine it would be Kavinsky.

But it’s good enough, and he makes an embarrassing mess of you with practiced precision, every slap of his hips against yours a new groan wrenched from your throat, a new full-body shudder as your legs curl around him tighter and tighter.

You don’t take long. The name you call is strangled by every other sound trying to burst from you at once, and you come silently, mouth stretched around an agony of long-repressed pleasure. You think Kavinsky laughs at you, but it’s hard to hear through your own ragged breathing, the slick sound of him sliding into you, your new wave of gasps when pleasure turns over-sharp and sensitive. He comes in a hot rush a minute after you do, and you have exercised so many dormant muscles that you can’t do anything but shiver at the feel of him inside you.

His eyes aren’t any less dark when he looks down at you, but they’re no longer hungry. He just got exactly what he wanted. You wonder if you did, too. He pulls out and slumps back against the door, tucking his dick away and leaving you to remember modesty and shame and scramble to cover your own. “Not bad,” he tells you, but it sounds like an insult and you take it as one. “You want a ride back to Lynch? Bet he’d love to see you get out of my car looking like that.”

You walk. You trudge down the middle of an empty downtown street, the howl of the Evo disappearing into the distance, and you start making familiar calculations of how much sleep you can get if you make it home in less than half an hour. If it’s going to take you longer with all the new pains in your hips.

In the aftermath, you don’t feel like you’ve scratched an itch so much as clawed at it until it’s started bleeding, and it might not itch anymore but only because you’ve turned it into something worse. A few very specific parts of you feel good; the rest does not, and the thought of Gansey and Ronan’s wide eyes on your bitten throat feels less like a victory than it did half an hour ago.

You make it home too late, lie awake wondering how you’ll be able to face anyone in the morning, and you dream of a figure that’s bitter and dark and bites hard crescents into your hips.

You don’t know what you want besides a shower.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [could i correct the dawn or the big red machine: snapshots of a progression](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545818) by [inkrush81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkrush81/pseuds/inkrush81)




End file.
